All the Love in the World
by BringingXCBack
Summary: AU Merder, Derek is a third-year med student, Meredith is a nineteen-year-old college student.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my new story that I've actually had finished for a little while now. This chapter is really all about Derek, and as you'll see, he's a third-year medical student. **

**I don't own Grey's Anatomy, or the characters, they belong to Shonda Rimes and ABC, and I don't own the plot, which comes from _The Christmas Blessing_ by Donna VanLiere. **

**I suppose, that's it. Here's my new story...**

Chapter 1

Late October 2000

I hastily backed out of my parking space outside of the apartment complex, watching as a young mother shot me a dirty look while she pulled her daughter close to her. I looked down at my watch, the second hand dragging slowly, before moving on. I tapped the watch's face, and glanced at the clock on my dashboard. _The rotation starts in five minutes. I'll never make it,_ I thought, as my tires squealed while I pulled onto the main road. I got my second angry look from the gardener at the complex entrance, as I flew over the speed bumps.

I was shaken—I was never late. I had noticed that my watch had been becoming a little sluggish in the past few days, so I had started to use a second clock in my bathroom to make sure that I made it to work on time. Today, however, as I was shaving, I must have accidentally pulled the cord just enough to turn off the clock. Just my luck—a new rotation and a new doctor to make a first impression on—and I was late.

I calculated that if I made every light through town, I could get to the hospital in fifteen minutes. However, as I turned into a parking space in the hospital I saw that it had only taken me fourteen minutes—a personal record. I jumped out of the car and ran to the entrance, praying that the rotation hadn't started yet. But, I knew better. Dr. Webber never failed to start on time, so I just had to run faster.

As part of the program's third-year medical rotations, the university had Dr. Richard Webber—the best cardiologist in the hospital—instructing us throughout the rotation. Normally, most med school programs don't include cardiology, but the program felt that a cardiology rotation would only enhance each student's study. So, I was stuck for the next month with Dr. Webber. He was a Stanford and Yale man, chief of cardiology, father of three, grandfather of four, and a pain in my ass. His specialty happened to pediatric cardiology, but with the hospital only seeing a handful of kids a year, as chief, Dr. Webber oversaw the treatment of the adults, too.

Every rotation consisted of an attending, three or four students, and a resident. Miranda Bailey was the resident on Dr. Webber's team. I was the last one to pick up my clipboard hanging at the nurse's station with the day's rounds—the other students and Dr. Bailey were already following Dr. Webber from room to room. Luckily for me, they were only on the first patient, so I snuck in behind Mark Sloan, an old friend and fellow student. Dr. Webber was sitting on the bed with the patient—a forty-five-year-old man recovering from open-heart surgery.

"She's beating like a thirty-year-old's heart," said Dr. Webber, smiling.

"Does that translate to the rest of his body?" asked the man's wife, causing Dr. Webber to laugh. He always seemed to have a relaxed, effortless way with his patients and their families; a trait that didn't always carry over to his students.

"So everything feels normal?" asked Dr. Webber, clapping his hand onto the patient's shoulder.

"He's grouchy again," said his wife, stopping and looking up from her knitting.

"Is that good, or bad?" asked Dr. Webber, smiling at the man.

"I don't know if it's good or bad, but for him it's normal," his wife answered, before turning back to her knitting. The patient bowed his head and looked uncomfortable. _Poor guy,_ I thought, _no wonder he needed the heart surgery. His wife is relentless._

"All right, Frank, you're ready to go home." Said Dr. Webber, smiling. The man, Frank, shook Dr. Webber's hand, his eyes filling with tears. He opened his mouth as if he was about to speak, before abruptly closing it. He didn't want to get emotional in front of a room of medical students. He shook Dr. Webber's hand one more time, and Dr. Webber clapped his shoulder again, before motioning for us to leave the room with him.

Once in the hall, we could hear Frank's wife get a head start on heart attack number two.

"What do you mean you won't wear the piece? Just because the doctor fixed your ticker doesn't mean you're hair's going to grow back. Put this on! Put this on, Frank, or I'm not walking out these doors with you. I mean it, Frank! I will not walk out these doors."

For the sake of Frank's fixed heart, I hoped that his head would shine as he walked through the door of the hospital.

"Who's our next patient, Shepherd?" asked Dr. Webber, noting something on Frank's chart. I wrung my hands, and looked down at the chart.

"The patient in room 2201." I said, quietly. He looked at me, and began talking as though he were giving a speech to a large crowd.

"Mr. Shepherd, just as you were not given a number at birth, but a name, you will find that your patients entered the world in the exact same fashion. Learn who they are, not where they're located."

I could feel my forehead break out in sweat—I had never meant to demean the patient—and before I could open my mouth again, Dr. Webber already knew the name of the patient, and had the parade moving through the hall. I felt my chest tighten as Dr. Webber once again singled me out.

"And Dr. Shepherd, as a reminder, your rotation begins at six A.M., not six eighteen." I should have known Dr. Webber would pick up on the fact that I was late.

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I withdrew to the lounge as soon as I had a break during rounds, and sank down into the sofa. I rested my head on the wall, rubbing my temples. Had I known that I'd meet someone like Dr. Webber in my future, I would have never signed up for medical school in the first place. I looked down at my watch, and saw that it had again stopped running. Even after I had tapped the face, the second hand wouldn't move, so I resorted to taking the watch off and tapping the battery casing. I smiled as I ran my finger over the inscription: _All the love in the world, Dad._

My father died around a year after he stood with me on a hill overlooking the valley. Maybe he knew that he'd never get to see me grow up, or perhaps he was preparing me for the long valley I'd have to forge through without him, or maybe it was all to prepare him for death.

I remember my mother coming into my room on the early morning hours of that Christmas. She said that my father had stepped into heaven. My younger sisters, Kathleen and Anna stayed asleep—they were far too young to understand what had happened. I ran to the living room where my grandmother sat with my older sisters, Margaret and Nancy, holding them close to her, sobbing. I watched the three of them for the longest time, hoping that they'd stop and tell me that it was all a joke, but I knew they never would. He was thirty-six years old.

Wilson's Department Store was about to close on that Christmas Eve as I ran from one department to the next looking for the perfect gift until the tie caught my eyes on a sale rack. I pulled out a crumpled wad of bills and coins from my pocket as I set the tie on the front register. The clerk told me that I didn't have enough money—I was heartbroken, because I just had to buy that tie. I turned to a man behind me, and before I could say anything, he paid for the tie, and I carried it home as I ran. When I helped my mother wrap the tie, my heart swelled as I thought of my father wearing the tie. We buried my father in that tie. I started leaving ties on his tombstone again when I was sixteen. The owner of Wilson's somehow found me a similar tie every single year and ordered it for me.

Throughout my entire childhood, my father wrote a series of letters to my sisters, and me. In one addressed to me he wrote:

_Dear Derek,_

_I have had many joys in life, but none have compared to you, and the girls. A always want you to know that I fell more in love with you every day. I want you to always look for the miracles in life. It may be hard to see them, but they will always be there._

He finished the letter and signed it the same way he always did: _All the love in the world, Dad._

I was helping my father string Christmas lights on the bushes outside our house the winter before he died when he first told me about the miracles of Christmas. "Jesus was born at Christmas, he left heaven to live here." He said, wrapping a long strand around a holly bush. He bent back over the bush, and tugged at the lights stuck on a low branch. I helped him pull them, and together we continued the job. "That's kind of like us becoming a worm and living in the dirt. Love came down at Christmas, Derek. That's the greatest miracle of all," he said, wiping his nose, "That's the true blessing of Christmas and why it will always be the season for miracles." We stood back and admired our work, and frowned at the tangled mess we had created. "If you get too busy, you won't see the miracles right in front of you." Said my father, fixing a blown light bulb.

Years before he'd died, my father bought special gifts for my sisters and I, which he and my mother had planned to give us on our sixteenth birthdays. My mother stuck to that plan after my father's death. My sisters got gold lockets, and I got my watch—a flat, gold-faced Timex with a simple black band. The inscription was a reminder of something I always asked him.

"Is your love for me as big as Texas?"

"Bigger," he'd say, smiling.

"As big as America?"

"Bigger."

"As big as the whole _world_?"

"It's even bigger than the world, but if you combined all the love in the whole world, it might come close to how much I love you," my father told me.

I'd worn that watch every day since my mother gave it to me, as promised, on my sixteenth birthday.

Soon after my father's death I told my mother and my grandmother that I wanted to be a doctor. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told them that I wanted to be a doctor so that I could help people just like my father.

Before I knew it, I was done with college, and into medical school. I felt the pressure mounting, people were counting on me to become a physician, and my father's memory depended on it. But three months of rotations and watching people suffer and die, and a now a week with Dr. Webber, and I questioned whether I'd made the right decision. I was emotionally drained, and found myself mourning my father whenever someone passed away. I always felt as if I didn't measure up—that I wasn't cut out for medicine. I opened my eyes, and realized that I had to go back to rounds.

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Outside a patient's room, our team was gathered, and Preston, another third-year med student on our team, began reciting the patient's vitals. Preston was the "gunner" in our group—a med student's jargon to describe a fellow student who was always the first to answer, the first to volunteer for a procedure, the first to give stats on someone else's patient, and the first to get on everyone else's nerves. The term had been around since before we had even applied to med school. Mark and I shot each other glances as Preston handed out Xeroxed copies of an article on angioplasty from our textbooks, one of twelve so far this rotation, all filed in the same place—the nearest garbage can. Mark and I suffered in silence; it was all we could do, there was a gunner on every rotation.

Mary Copeland was the next patient on our rounds. She was a fifty-two-year-old woman complaining of chest pain who had a history of cervical disc disease. I had done Mary's workup when she was admitted to the hospital the previous afternoon. I went over her progress notes with the team, before entering her room. It was customary that the attending took over once the group entered the patient's room—it was our time to stand back and learn—but I felt that it was important to greet my patient's first.

"Good morning, Mary," I said, standing at her side.

"I see that your daughter was able to bring you your knitting. I hope you're not so bored now." Dr. Webber glanced to me.

"What are you making?" I asked, smiling.

"It's a baby blanket for my next grandchild…number three. I've made a blanket for all of them. She's due in the next week or so." Said Mary. I picked up the blanket in my hands, feeling the softness.

"You've even stitched her name in here!" I said, sensing that Dr. Webber was waiting for me to finish.

"Let's go ahead and take a listen to your heart this morning." I said, as I listened to her heart, and felt her pulse. I could tell that I was taking up far too much time.

"Dr. Webber would like to listen to your heart today as well." I said, as Dr. Webber took my place and examined her. As he did, he asked about her grandchildren, where they lived, how long she'd been married, and if she'd make him a pair of slippers. She laughed, and I watched as Dr. Webber won over another patient. Before leaving, I squeezed Mary's shoulder and told her I'd be by later to check on her.


	2. Chapter 2

**That last one was a Meredith-less chapter, but this one isn't. Here's chapter two...**

Chapter 2

Mark and I were walking to the cafeteria for lunch when I heard my pager go off. It was a page to Mary's room. I walked as quickly as I could, and found the baby blanket still on her lap. Her daughter Ellen, for whom the blanket was clearly for, looked very pregnant and uncomfortable, was sitting in the chair nearest the bed.

"Is everything all right, Mary?" I asked. She leaned forward and rubbed her hand over her lower back.

"My back has been hurting." She said, softly. I helped Mary to a more comfortable position.

"You've been immobile for a longer time than usual, and that may be putting some unwanted pressure on those discs in your back. Does that feel better?" I asked. She paused for a moment, and then looked up at me.

"Yes, thank you, I think it helped." She said.

"So you don't think it's anything serious?" asked Ellen.

"No, it may just be some inflammation around those discs, but we should rule out any other possibilities. How much longer before this is done?" I asked, handing the knitting back to Mary.

I left her room and went to the nurse's station to discuss follow-up with the nurse on duty and to page one of the residents when Ellen came rushing from her mother's room.

"My mother needs help!" she shouted. A nurse ran past me and headed into Mary's room, and I followed closely on her heels. I had just stepped inside when the nurse called out for someone to page Dr. Bailey.

I stood in the hallway, right outside Mary's room, feeling helpless as Dr. Bailey wheeled Mary to the OR. I was ordered to stay behind and attend to the other patients on the floor.

I finished my responsibilities and raced up the stairs to the OR. I opened the door into the hallway, and saw Dr. Bailey standing, waiting for an elevator.

"What happened? How's Mary Copeland?" I asked, nervous.

"She died a few minutes ago." Said Dr. Bailey, softly. _It couldn't be possible—Mary was knitting a few minutes ago_, I thought.

"What happened?" I heard myself ask.

"She died from ascending aortic dissection." Said Dr. Bailey. The elevator doors opened in front of us, but I found myself unable to step forward—my legs to weak to move me. Dr. Bailey stepped inside the elevator and held the door for me.

"Derek?" she asked. I looked at her, but couldn't respond, with my mind racing. If Mary had died of ascending aortic dissection, it meant the pain that she had been feeling in her back was really caused by a tear in her aorta, not her cervical disc disease.

"Mary told me her back was aching, so I thought that the pain was attributed to her cervical disc disease. I had just gone to the nurse's station to—" I said, but Dr. Bailey cut me off.

"Given her medical history, I would have thought the same thing. Mary was a woman with a long history of back problems, Derek. She was much sicker than any of us knew, and sometimes as doctors there's not anything we can do. This seems to have been one of those times." Said Dr. Bailey, as I stepped onto the elevator and watched the doors close. The elevator stopped, and I followed her into the cardiology department.

I walked past the room where Mary had stayed, and a nurse was dealing with her personal items. I leaned against the wall outside her door, and found it hard to catch my breath. I bent over, resting my hands on my knees, and found my mind wandering to my first rotation—surgery.

During that two-week rotation, a twenty-seven-year-old was brought in after being involved in a car accident. His arm had been lacerated in the crash and was nearly severed. In an attempt to save the arm and avoid further nerve damage, the patient was rushed to the OR.

The surgery proceeded well for twenty-two minutes, when the patient's heart went into failure, causing the young man to die. It was the first patient death I had encountered, and it hit me harder than I had imagined it would. Intellectually, I knew it came with the territory, but my heart wasn't prepared. My heart went out to the family, when the received the phone call with the unexpected news, and while they made the call to the funeral home for final arrangements.

I stood in the OR after the moniters were turned off, and I stared into the man's face, and studied his hands, and clothing. He woke up that morning having no idea that the jeans and pullover shirt he wore would be the last clothes he'd ever pick out—he had no idea that it would be the last car ride he'd ever take. I wondered what his last words were to his wife, or what he had said to his mother or to his children—did he even have a chance to have children? Even after the curtain was pulled around his body, I went back to look at him. I found sleep a difficult to come by commodity for the next few days. To make matters much worse, I didn't see any other students suffering in the ways I did.

After Mary died, I confided my doubts in Mark during a game of one-on-one basketball.

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"It's because we work so many hours," said Mark, "We've been thrown into deep waters, and we've got to sink or swim now. You'd see things differently if you weren't so damn tired." He sank a shot over my head. I grabbed the ball and held him off with one arm.

"You take Webber too personally. He's hard on everybody, Derek, not just you." Said Mark, as I ran around him and jumped in the air, aiming for the basket. The ball dropped through the hoop, and William grabbed it, dribbling it close to the floor.

"It's not Webber. A patient died under my care." I said, lunging for the ball.

"She wasn't under your care. You were the med student on the team that was treating her." Said Mark, resting the ball on his hip while he wiped his face with the back of his arm.

"There was nothing anyone could have done. You need to stop blaming yourself." Said Mark, moving again. I charged for the ball, and snatched it away, sinking a two-pointer. Mark caught the ball, and darted past me, up the middle.

"She trusted me, Mark." I said.

"Did you go into medicine thinking that you'd save everyone? If you did, you're going to burn out faster than any of us. What's important is how you're patients feel with you. You're good with them—you know what to say to them, how to talk to them. Mary Copeland never thought for a second that she shouldn't trust you." Said Mark. I wanted to say _Exactly! She felt like she should trust me—that somehow I was going to help her, but I couldn't_, but I just let him continue. "I don't think my patients like me." He said, moving past me, dunking the ball again.

"That's because they're afraid of you," I said, spinning on my heels, "You walk into their room and they've never seen anyone as big as you. They're not sure if you're there to work them up, or rough them up." I darted past him and jumped in the air, but the ball only swiped the bottom of the net. Mark was ahead. He laughed and snatched the ball, dribbling it close to his body.

"You mean I'm like Shaft." He said, holding me off.

"You're badder than Shaft—you can insert a catheter." I said. He laughed as he tried to run around me.

"Do you ever have doubts?" I asked, waving my arms in his face.

"Sure I do." He said, sinking another shot over my head, but I found it hard to believe him. He was right about one thing, though—the hours were intense, the work brutal, and together that left me physically and emotionally drained. Now Dr. Webber seemed determined to turn my rotation into hell. If I was going to start swimming, I'd have to get out of the deep water with Dr. Webber before he drowned me.

Sleep didn't come to me that night. I looked at the clock at 10:30, and then at 11:45, 1:20, 3:00, and finally 4:45, when I decided I should get out of bed. I stood in the shower for thirty minutes, hoping that the water would wash away Mary's memory, but every time I saw her face, I saw my father's and I just didn't think that I could go through that over, and over, and over again.

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Meredith Grey peeked into the hospital room of twelve-year-old Charlie Bennett. When the college freshman saw that the boy was awake, she ran to his bed and sat down on top of it.

"I looked all over for you after the meet. Your dad found me and told me that you were here. What's going on?" she asked.

"Ask Mom," grumbled Charlie, eyeballing his mother, "She's the one who made me come." Leslie Bennett smiled as she stood to leave the room.

"He had trouble catching his breath, Meredith." She said.

"It didn't even last that long." Said Charlie, rolling his eyes.

"It was long enough to take a few years off of my life, that's all." Said Leslie, smiling. She grabbed her empty coffee cup of the table by Charlie's bed, and left the room.

"How do you feel?" Meredith asked.

"I feel great. I didn't need to come in." When Charlie had been born, only one of his heart ventricles worked, so after three surgeries to re-route the blood flow of his heart, Charlie was able to have a life like any other little boy his age. He knew his limits and rested when he got tired, but nothing slowed him down for long. He looked like every other kid on the playground, and preferred it that way.

It was only in the last five months that he'd begun to have any trouble.

"How'd you do today?" asked Charlie, easing himself into the sitting position.

"I came in first." Said Meredith. Charlie smiled and pumped his arm up and down enthusiastically.

"What'd you run it in?" he asked, getting down to business. Meredith looked down and smiled.

"Fifteen-thirty." The boy's eyes lit up, and he cracked his knuckles.

"Man, I wish I could have been there. When's your next race?" he asked.

"Friday."

"Good. Cut two seconds." He said, looking at her seriously.

"What, two seconds? Are you crazy? I already cut my old time! I ran the fastest I ever have today." Charlie brought his hands up under his chin and gave her a good smile.

"Run faster." Meredith sighed, and Charlie cracked his knuckles again and pointed his finger.

"Don't ever take your eyes off the finish like. If you take your eyes off the goal, you'll never make it to the end." Meredith said the words along with him.

"Never take your eyes off the goal! I know," she said, shaking her head, "You tell me the exact same thing every time." She said. Charlie turned into the stern taskmaster again.

"Remember two seconds." Meredith stood and kissed Charlie's cheek, which he quickly wiped off.

"Are you going to be there, or will you still be in here?" she asked.

"I'll be there. There's no way I'm staying in here." Said Charlie. Meredith had met Charlie her sophomore year in high school. He was fascinated with the runners he watched on the television, so his mother would take him to the local cross-country and track meets. To Leslie's embarrassment, the little boy would run alongside the runners, barking at them to run faster or to keep their eyes on the finish line. He was very quick to notice Meredith's ability.

"You're the fastest girl I've ever seen." He said to her after one meet. At each race, Meredith would look for the little boy in the stands. She introduced Charlie and Leslie to her family, and the two families had been sitting together ever since.

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Meredith slung her bag over he shoulder, and headed to the nurses station to set a clipboard on the counter.

"Olivia, would it be okay if I left my sponsor sheet here so you could as any of the doctors and nurses that I normally don't see if they'd like to sign up?" asked Meredith. Olivia smiled and took the paper from her. She was well aware of what Meredith was doing; her name was already on the sheet. Meredith was organizing a race to raise money for a pediatric heart patient fund. The money would go into a trust and be awarded each year to a patient as part of a college scholarship.

"If they don't sign up, I'll inject them with some sort of sponsor-sheet injection drug we must have around here someplace." Said Olivia, looking around in the drawers.

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I walked towards the nurse's station and was looking over my notes on my clipboard when a young woman ran into me, knocking it out of my hands.

"I'm so sorry." She said, sweeping the clipboard up before I could even bend down. She laughed, and her green eyes sparkled. Her dark blond hair fell just to the top of her shoulders, and when she smiled, her face lit up. She was lovely.

"No, no. It's my fault, " I said, "I shouldn't have been walking on the side of the hall that's clearly designated for running." She laughed, handing me the clipboard.

"Just keep that in mind for now on." She said, smiling and jogging towards the elevator.

I set my clipboard on the nurse's station, and could feel the pressure building in my forehead.

"Another rough morning with Dr. Webber?" asked Olivia, while I groaned and peeked at her through my fingers, "He's the best there is, really."

"You know, everybody keeps telling me that, but they're all people who have never actually worked under Dr. Webber." I said, folding my hands on the counter. Olivia shrugged her shoulders.

"Just telling you what I've see for years around here. People love him."

"Med students don't love him."

"Med students aren't people, " she said, straight-faced. I looked at her, and she broke out laughing. I noticed the sponsor sheet next to my clipboard.

"What's this?"

"It's for a scholarship run for the pediatric heart patients. Each year there's going to be a run to raise money for a college scholarship. Do something good in the world, sign up." She said, typing into the computer. I took the sheet, and examined it.

"Is this your idea of peer pressure?" I asked, as she handed me a pen.

"You bet! Now sign up and help those kids."

"Who's the sponsoring organization for the run?" I asked, signing my name.

"It's not an organization, it's Meredith Grey. She's one of the fastest runners in the state"

"Is she on staff here?"

"No, she's one of our heart patients."


	3. Chapter 3

**Just putting this out there...the book that I am drawing this story from is called "The Christmas Blessing" by Donna VanLiere, and it's a lovely book in a series. It would make a great read for anyone who enjoys this story. This chapter is a more Meredith explanation chapter. Enjoy...**

Chapter 3

Meredith bolted upright in bed when the phone rang. She quickly staggered through the dark hallway into the living room, where she picked up the telephone. It was Olivia from the hospital. Meredith's mother, Susan, crept up behind her and was able to make out bits and pieces of the conversation.

"What time?" she heard Meredith ask, "How is she?" Susan observed Meredith carefully throughout the conversation.

"Don't worry about it, we were up anyways." Said Meredith, hanging up the phone, as she turned to look at her mother.

"A heart is available for Hope." Said Meredith, smiling. Hope Daniels was a five-year-old who had been waiting for a heart transplant for seven months. She had been diagnosed with dilated cardiomyopathy, which meant that her heart was enlarging and loosing it's ability to squeeze. A car-accident in the early morning had claimed the life of a five-year-old boy. Meredith was silent as she put on her running shorts and shoes, and pulled her hair into a ponytail.

"I won't be gone long." She said as she closed the door behind her. The air was cool and crisp, and the sun just beginning to break though the orange and red leaves of the trees. Autumn was her favorite time of year to run. She went to a nearby park and began to stretch, looking for the runner with the neon baseball cap. When she saw her, Meredith took off, racing behind her.

Meredith pushed herself to keep up with the runner in the neon cap for lap after lap around the lake.

"She's like a gazelle," Meredith told her father one day, "I clunk around like a goat compared to her."

"It's because she's taller." He said, offering her a smile.

"No, Dad, it's not. It's more than that. There's a beauty when she runs." Thatcher Grey held his daughter's face in his hands.

"There's a beauty when you run, Meredith, and everybody around you can see it." Meredith immediately dismissed what her father said. Of course he had to say that, that's what fathers do. He put his arm around her and pulled her down next to him on the sofa.

"Why do you wait around for her everyday?"

"Because she's the best runner I've ever seen and if I am going to run, I have to run after somebody better than me."

The fall air was stinging Meredith's lungs, but she pushed harder to keep up with the runner in the neon cap. As soon as the runner finally slowed down and walked over the crest of the hill to her car, Meredith stopped; her breathing labored, and stretched her arms high over her head.

"One of these days I'll catch you," she said toward the empty hill, "And then I'm going to _pass _you!" She sat down on the wet grass next to the lake, pulling her knees up to her chin.

"Help Hope through the operation. Please let this new heart work." She whispered, looking out over the lake. She rested there for several minutes, tossing pebbles and acorns into the lake, watching the small ripples that swelled over the water's surface. Finally, she got up, brushed herself off, and ran home to help her mother get Lexie and Molly ready for school. While most of the students lived in the dorms or apartments nearby the school, Meredith wanted to live at home for her first year of college.

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At first I though it was too cold for a run. I hadn't been a diehard runner since my college days. However, today I decided it was okay, so I drove down to the park. I stood by my truck, stretching my legs. In the distance, I could see two other runners on the path around the lake: a young woman wearing tight, black spandex and a neon ball cap who blazed around the lake, and another woman wearing a knit cap. I watched Neon Lady as she ran the perimeter of the lake; she was too serious and focused—no doubt a gunner. But she was a great runner, all fluid motion when she breezed along the path. It was then that I noticed the young woman running behind her, pacing herself off of Neon Lady. _That's what it looks like when you're doing it the way you're supposed to, _I thought, watching them. They finished their run before I even started mine. I walked toward the lake to begin my run when the woman with the knit cap sat beneath the giant oak tree by the lake. _It's probably routine for her, _I thought, _She runs her body hard and then clears her mind for the rest of the day. _It was something that I would probably benefit from doing, but instead I finished my run, and then jumped back into my truck. I had to get back to my apartment so that I could make it on time to the hospital.

I arrived at the hospital thirty minutes early to speak with Dr. Bailey; she was the only one who carried enough weight to help me.

"I was wondering if I could possibly be part of another rotation?" I asked, my voice sounding weak. I hoped it sounded convincing enough to her. She seemed distracted, and I couldn't help but feel as though things were already off to a bad start. She looked at me for a moment.

"Dr. Webber is a fine physician, in fact, I would say he's the best doctor in the whole damn hospital." Said Dr. Bailey. I rubbed my temples—I couldn't take another "he's a fine physician, one of the best" speech.

"Is this because of Mary Copeland? Because if it is, there will be other patients who will die unexpectedly. The hospital's not in the habit of accommodating the wants of medical students, anyway. You should know that by now." I sensed that the bomb was about to detonate—there was no way Dr. Bailey was going to pull me from this rotation.

"It's not necessarily a want, Miranda, I need to change to another rotation." I said.

"Why?"

"Because I'm thinking of dropping out of med school, and if I stay under Dr. Webber, I know I will." There was a pause from Dr. Bailey. I hated putting her in the middle of my problem, he was responsible for medical students on the team and coddling a student's emotional dilemma wasn't part of that responsibility.

"I'll see what I can do." I felt a weight lift off of my shoulders. I looked down at my watch; I had to get going. I was going to get a chance to scrub in to observe the heart transplant of a five-year-old.

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Meredith opened the front door and saw Lexie and Molly eating breakfast at the kitchen table.

"Was Neon Lady there?" asked Lexie, as Meredith stepped into the kitchen.

"She was."

"Did you beat the pants off her?" asked Molly; mashing the eggs on her plate into a fine, yellow mess. Meredith slid in next to her youngest sister at the table.

"Nah, I let her win. I feel bad for her—she's fast, athletic, attractive. How's she ever going to get ahead in this world with those kinds of attributes? If I didn't let her win every morning, she wouldn't have anything going for her."

After breakfast, Meredith helped dress Molly for school.

"I can do it myself, you know." Grumbled Molly, as Meredith pulled a fuzzy sweater over her sister's head.

"I know you can, but I like to do it." Molly sighed as Meredith tucked, pulled, straightened, and buttoned her into her clothes for the day. The truth was, Molly loved al the attention her older sister gave her, and Meredith was more than generous with the time she gave to both of her younger sisters. Outside the bedroom door, Susan listened to Meredith and Molly talk. To think that for so long, she believed she'd never have a family of her own. After years of being alone, she married Thatcher, and become a stepmother, who seemed more like a real mother, to Meredith in 1982, when she was just a year old.

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Every night when Meredith was little, Thatcher would carry her to the back deck and lift her head to the stars.

"That's the Big Dipper," he'd say, pointing, "not to be confused with the big dope…that's your daddy." He'd show her constellation after constellation, then, pointing to the brightest star he'd say, "That's what you are, Mer. You're a star, you're daddy's little star."

As he lifted her from her crib one morning, Thatcher noticed that something was wrong: Meredith was listless and nonresponsive. He was in the car with Meredith and halfway down the driveway before Susan knew what was happening. She jumped in the car beside then and rode to the hospital without taking time to put on her shoes.

The doctors put Meredith through X-rays, and she screamed; they drew blood, and she screamed louder.

"You need to get her to a heart specialist." Said the emergency room doctor. Thatcher and Susan were terrified. The baby that they loved so deeply was sick.

Dr. Richard Webber held the squirming child close to him and cooed into her ear. When Meredith looked into his eyes, a small smile broke over her face.

"There's a hole in her heart." He said, running his pinky over Meredith's cheek.

"Oh my God." Gasped Susan.

"It's an odd size…normally, if the hole is too big, we go in and repair it. When they're small, we just leave them, knowing they'll close on their own. I don't think this hole is big enough to repair." He said, cradling Meredith in one arm, and pulling her close.

"So it will close on it's own." Said Thatcher.

"It may not close all the way."

"What if it doesn't? What will that mean for Meredith?" asked Thatcher.

"You'll need to monitor her activities, make sure she doesn't do anything too strenuous." He said.

"But she can still have a normal life?" asked Susan, taking Meredith from the doctor's arms.

"With restrictions, she can. She might not be able to ride her bike as fast as the other kids, or jump in the pool twenty times in a row, or run up and down the street playing tag, but it's too early to tell. We'll have to see her back to examine her throughout the years to monitor any changes."

Thatcher and Susan took their baby home, determined to treat her as a fragile gift, but Meredith rejected and acts of delicacy from the get go. She loved to stand, balanced on her father's feet, and he would dance her around the living room, making her giggle and laugh with every spin.

"Be careful, Thatch." Susan would chide.

"She loves it!" he'd say.

"She might get too worked up." But Thatcher would pick Meredith up and spin her around until she kicked and bounced in his arms. If Meredith was sick, she didn't know it.

On her fifth birthday, Susan and Thatcher took her back to Richard Webber, who took more X-rays of her heart. For the last several years, the hole in her heart hadn't closed at all, but Dr. Webber always beamed when he saw her. Meredith was proving him wrong, and he couldn't be happier. She wasn't fragile and frail—she was a ball of fire. As he listened to her heart through the stethoscope, he smiled.

"It sounds strong."

After school, Meredith would hop on her bike or run up and down the street with the neighborhood children. Susan would watch through the window from inside, rocking from one foot to the other, and chewing on her cheek.

"Let her be." Thatcher would always say.

"What if something happens to her? What if she falls and we don't see her?" asked Susan, craning her neck to see Meredith through the window.

"She has to play, Susan. We have to let her play."

"The doctor says that we need to monitor her."

"He never said that we need to obsess over her." Susan moved from the window, pretending to busy herself around the house, but she always had an ear tuned for Meredith's voice.

In second grade, after her parents have given up hope of having more children, Meredith became an older sister when Lexie was born. Four years later, Molly was born. When Meredith was in the third grade, the Greys moved to a larger house to accommodate their growing family. Their new house was on the other side of the city, in a different school district.

Meredith was distraught over moving away from her friends and beloved teachers.

"Meredith," Susan would begin, "just think about all of the new friends you're going to make." Tears filled Meredith's eyes.

"I don't want new friends."

"But you don't know who you're going to meet there." Said Susan, stroking her daughter's hair.

"This could be the best thing that happens to you. Just wait and see." Said Thatcher. Meredith nodded, telling her parents that she understood, but Meredith cried, thinking of the friends she would be leaving behind.

Instead of riding the bus like she used to, Meredith became a "walker". Susan walked with her those first few days, pushing Lexie in the stroller.

"You can't walk her everyday. We have to let her walk with the other kids." Said Thatcher.

The next day, Susan helped Meredith with her backpack and sent her out the door for her first solo walk to school. But Meredith didn't make any friends on the walk to school that morning, and she found none at school. When the final bell of the day rang, Meredith ran down the stairs and all the way home. Meredith ran to and from school every day for the next three years. Of course, Meredith's running made Susan a nervous wreck, but Thatcher would say, "Maybe she was born to run."

"Not with a defective heart she wasn't."

"Dr. Webber said that her heart is strong, Susan. Let her run if she wants to." Susan couldn't deny that Meredith's heart was strong. It was stronger than any of them expected; their sick little baby was an athlete.


	4. Chapter 4

**It's nice seeing all of the positive reviews, but I really must credit all of the story to Shonda Rimes and ABC for the characters, and to Donna VanLiere through "The Christmas Blessing" for the story. Enjoy this fourth part...**

**Chapter 4**

After Meredith finished getting Molly ready that morning, Meredith showered and dressed, pulling her hair into a neat ponytail.

"The meet starts at three, Mom." Said Meredith, putting her books into her backpack.

"Look for us, right side, fourth row up." Said Lexie.

"By the foghorn man." Added Molly. So that Meredith could spot them easily, the Greys always sat in the same place for every one of her races; fourth row up, right side, by the coach with the bullhorn.

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I washed every inch of my hands and arms, then a nurse slipped the surgical scrubs over my shoulders and slid gloves onto my hands. Dr. Erica Hahn, one of the transplant surgeons would perform the surgery, with Dr. Callie Torres assisting. Dr. Webber filed our team into the OR, and we waited for the transplant to begin. When Dr. Webber entered, he bent low to the girl's ear and whispered something, squeezing her leg. As third-year students, theoretically, we were prepared to participate on some level in the operation, but Dr. Webber kept us from it, with the exception of handing the surgeon an instrument if her chose to ask us for it.

From time to time, Dr. Hahn would speak to us without taking his eyes off his work. I noticed that on several occasions, Dr. Webber leaned down and whispered in the girl's ear. "Doing great, Hope. Everything's looking great." Hope's new heart was inside a plastic bag filled with a sterile solution, sitting in a pail of slushy ice water. I was drawn into the surgery in a way I hadn't expected. I saw the heart beating inside the girl's tiny chest and was so moved by the sight that my throat tightened. Of course, Dr. Hahn stopped her heart and removed it, and it was so dark, swollen, and red. He passed the heart to a nurse, and she set it on a towel, where we watched it pump several times before stopping altogether. I found that to be unbelievable. The new heart was pale and pink, and so glossy. Dr. Hahn rolled the heart into the body cavity, and we watched as he connected the back of the heart first. After a good thirty minutes of stitching, the heart was in place. Dr. Hahn removed the cross clamp and we waited for the blood to flow into the coronary arteries that fed the heart and watched as it began to pump. I felt like cheering—it was the most remarkable thing I had ever seen.

"Amazing," said Dr. Webber, "It just ever ceases to amaze me." He clapped Dr. Hahn on the back, and I could see that he was smiling through his mask. Dr. Hahn bent over toward the heart and continued his work.

"Clamp." There was silence in the room. I glanced up and saw that Dr. Hahn was looking directly at me. He held out his hand. "Clamp." I looked at the instruments and was afraid that I'd hand him the wrong one. "Clamp." She repeated again, looking at Mark. Mark stepped forward and handed her the instrument, securing a better spot for the remainder of the surgery.

Dr. Hahn and Dr. Webber had a focused, professional rapport throughout the surgery and it was obvious that the medical team respected Dr. Webber in a way that I didn't. Maybe he really was the best.

After scrubbing out, Dr. Webber met with us to recap the surgery, and to answer any and all questions we had. For a brief moment, I looked down at my watch and realized that it had again stopped running. As I gave it a few taps, I noticed that Dr. Webber was no longer talking.

"Mr. Shepherd, am I boring you?" he asked, and I could feel the weight that had been released earlier with Dr. Bailey fall heavy on my chest again.

"I only hope that you give your patients the undivided attention that they so require." He said, reaching for a pair of glasses in his pocket, which he cleaned with his sleeve.

"May I ask you if you feel that this is your calling, Mr. Shepherd?" I could feel the eyes of my peers boring into me.

"Sir?"

"Is medicine a calling or a responsibility for you?" I was stunned. I don't know if I was more taken aback that Dr. Webber was embarrassing me in front of my peers or because he sensed my apprehension. "If it's not a question you've addressed, I'd suggest that you do." He said. Whatever positive feelings I'd had about Dr. Webber during the surgery vanished in an instant.

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At the end of the day, I made my way to the parking lot. My truck was on the far end, and I didn't even think that I had the energy to crawl, let alone walk to it.

"Why don't you make life easier and get a new watch?" asked Mark.

"The watch isn't the problem."

"It was today," he chuckled. I was glad that someone could get a laugh from my misery.

"Is medicine a calling or a responsibility for you?" I asked. He zipped his coat and smiled.

"Hey, you're the one who's supposed to answer that. Not me." I folded my arms, and walked faster to keep up.

"What's that 'calling or responsibility' supposed to mean, anyway?" Mark just shrugged.

"I don't know. I think he means that sometimes you just act like you're becoming a physician because you owe it to the world. Listen, when a doctor asks you for a clamp, hand the man a clamp! You're not going to kill the patient." Said Mark, getting into his car. Soon enough, he was driving out of the parking lot.

"So it's wrong to care? Is that what you're saying? Doctors shouldn't care?" I shouted after him. He waved and squealed his tires as he pulled out onto the main road.

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By the time that Friday came around, I couldn't wait to get my to my own apartment and just crash. On my way home, I drove past the university and noticed the busses and cars lined along the street. The sign in the front read "ROSS ROUNTRY MEET TODAY". In spite of my headache, I laughed when I read it, wondering what the kid was like that ran off with the missing "C's". On a whim, I pulled into the drive, parked, and made my way to the bleachers as a pack of male runners grouped at the starting line. At the sound of the gun, parents and classmates were on their feet, screaming and cheering. It was a rather large crowd for a cross-country meet, much larger than the sprinkling of parents that came to the meets when I was running. As I looked at the crowd, I had to smile. My mother, grandmother, and sisters sat in seats like these many years ago to watch me run against the best in the district, cheering until they lost their voices.

The race ended minutes later, with a fine athlete from the other team crossing the finish line in first. A group of female runners walked toward the starting line, preparing for the sound that would send them into them bolting into the woods and meadow beyond. As they gathered, a small girl in the middle of the crowd broke the silence that had formed. She cupped her hands around her mouth, and screamed something inaudible. Embarrassed, the girl's mother covered her mouth as the runners started the race. A girl, tall and lean, her dark blond ponytail tossing in the wind, blew past the other runners and took the lead. The crowd was on their feet shouting her name. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but it was obvious that she was the hometown favorite, if not the opposing team's favorite as well. I got up and screamed with everyone else.

"Go, go, go!" I shouted with every step she took. I could see her strides, long and fast, the other runners unable to catch up.

The crowd was so loud that I missed much of what the announcer said. All I heard as the winner crossed the finish line was, "…shaved three seconds off of her personal record. She ran it today in fifteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds." I'd never seen a girl run that fast—3.1 miles in just over fifteen minutes. No wonder the crowd was so big; the university had a star on their hands. Watching the crowd, I recalled that same energy from when I ran in high school and college. At the meets, Id' look up into the stands and scan the faces until I found my mother, grandmother, and sisters waving at me from the bleachers. I always smiled and waved back, wishing that my father could have been in the stands with them. My head was pounding, so I decided against watching another race, and drove home.

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Michelle Norris, one of the coaches for the women's team, caught Meredith and her family before they left the field. She was clutching a large brown envelope, smiling.

"I didn't want to blow your concentration before the race, but Stanford called me today. They've got a full scholarship with your name on it." She said, smiling at Meredith. Thatcher threw his hands over his head in victory, but Meredith was too astonished to speak.

"That's the second school." Said Susan; Georgetown had called a week earlier.

"I think there will be others," said Michelle, "I wouldn't be surprised if Colorado Boulder called. They seek out the best, and know that you slipped under their radar last year in high school. They know they're missing out on one of the best runners in the country." She put her arm around Meredith.

"Now comes the hard part, choosing." She said, Meredith staring down at the envelope. Thatcher picked his daughter up, whooping as bounced her up and down.

"They wouldn't even know who I am if it wasn't for you." Said Meredith, between bounces.

"You do the hard part. All I did was create a little buzz." Thatcher threw his hands in the air and whooped again, this time picking Michelle up and shaking her like a rag doll.

"This is my problem. No single guys are ever interested in me because married men keep picking me up." She said, laughing.

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Leslie Bennett drove Charlie to the hospital before Meredith's race. He begged his mother to take him to the meet, but his breathing was labored again, so the meet was out of the question as far as Leslie was concerned. Dr. Webber admitted him for another overnight stay, and with adjusted medications, Charlie fell asleep. Leslie stayed at his side. In the past few weeks, Leslie and Rich had noticed that Charlie's energy levels had decreased and that he was sleeping more than usual. When Rich arrived at the hospital after work, Charlie opened his eyes.

"You can go home, Dad," said Charlie, "I'm just going to go to sleep." Rich sat down and ran his hand through Charlie's hair.

"That's okay, I'll wait." He said. Rich watched as his son fell back asleep. He and Leslie had been overjoyed when their first son was born, at a healthy nine pounds. Even years after Charlie's surgeries, he was still the picture of normalcy.

When Rich was dating Leslie, and through the early days in their marriage, he was in the Air Force, like many service families, they moved from base to base. When he left the service, Rich and Leslie moved back to where they'd both grown up. The transition had been one of the most difficult in their lives. Rich struggled to find work, and eventually found a job driving a truck for a local package delivering company.

Leslie resigned from her part-time day care position within the last few months as Charlie's visits to the hospital became more frequent, often leaving their younger son, Matthew, with her parents. Rich's job didn't pay for all of the medical expenses, but anything helped. The months of stress and worry were showing on both of their faces; Leslie looked much older than her thirty-five years. She had once enjoyed making herself up in the morning, but after sleeping in a bed no bigger than a cot by her son's bed, makeup was the last thing on her mind.

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Meredith walked to the nurse's station on the fourth floor. Debbie looked up from her files.

"Charlie's doing great." She said.

"What happened?" asked Meredith.

"He needed his meds adjusted. He's fine now. Hope did great, too. She's in the ICU."

Meredith tiptoed into Charlie's room, smiling at Rich and Leslie, who motioned for her to come closer to his bedside. Meredith sat in a chair, leaning on the bed, careful not to disturb the maze of wires that were monitoring Charlie. She squeezed and patted his hand.

"I didn't take two seconds off, Charlie," she whispered, "I took three." Rich and Leslie smiled as Meredith kissed his forehead.

"I missed you, though. I couldn't have done it without you."

"Congratulations." Said Rich.

"When's your next race?" asked Leslie.

"Thursday."

"He'll want to see you before then."

"That's what I'm afraid of!"

An hour later, Charlie strained to open his eyes. Rich and Leslie jumped to their feet and bent toward him, touching his face.

"You're still waiting." Charlie whispered to his father.

"I'll wait forever if I have to." He said. It was something that he and Charlie had been saying to each other for years now. When Charlie heard it, he smiled and fell back to sleep.


End file.
